


Terror, Terror

by murg



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fictional Country, Gen, Implied Genocide, Literary References & Allusions, i needed to put this story somewhere, implied heavy shit, intelligentsia bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4994872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murg/pseuds/murg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Are you going to write that novel, Polly’s been asking me for months now, years now. Are you going to write that novel. I’m not going to, but I don’t tell her that. I just shrug. I just give a non-answer. I’m too tired to write a novel, I think. I miss home. It never rained so much at home. Fat gray drool sliding against the window pane. I’m sick of it. Half to death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terror, Terror

 

Rain again. Miserable day. I’m on my second cigarette by the time Polly ambles into the living room, eyes bleary. There’s no one outside. The streets are empty, mottled gray against a mottled gray world, dark and foreboding, the river Styx running right below my apartment window. It never rained this much back home. That’s not a nostalgic statement. It’s the truth.

Polly wants to know when I’ll to get a job. I tell her I will when I can get past the headlines of the papers. They never advertise anything I want to buy.

Sofie Schotek came by yesterday. We smoked cheap cigarettes and groused about the weather. Her husband’s family hates her. They make her sit at the children’s table at family gatherings. They hate her because she’s too intellectual. Aren’t we all. We talked until smoke covered the windows, so that we couldn’t see the outside world. Her husband came to pick her up at half four. She tottered out to his car, more nicotine than woman, more discontentment than human. It had been raining then.

Miserable. I don’t want a job. I can’t fight my way to the wanted ads. Polly says my standards are too high. I don’t even know what standards are. The ceiling has mottled brown stains. Water damage, Polly tells me. Does it ever stop fucking raining here, I say. Polly doesn’t tell me. There is a rage in my ribcage that has no voice. There is an inherent viciousness about my being. I am discontent. I could end worlds, if I cared enough to. There is terror in my breast.

Are you going to write that novel, Polly’s been asking me for months now, years now. Are you going to write that novel. I’m not going to, but I don’t tell her that. I just shrug. I just give a non-answer. I’m too tired to write a novel, I think. I miss home. It never rained so much at home. Fat gray drool sliding against the window pane. I’m sick of it. Half to death.

Half to death.

Sofie Schotek told me to saddle up, because that’s life and we all live it. She sucked down another cigarette and belched out contrite apathies. I appreciate Sofie Schotek. She says the things we’re all thinking. She’s far too intellectual. She’s aware of her messianic potential and she suffers for it. I suffer for nothing. I think she has the better end of the deal. She can afford apathy. I can afford nothing, not even the Sunday newspaper. She isn’t wrong though, I need to saddle up. I’m not home anymore and I never will be again. She isn’t wrong.

Still. It never rained this much back home. I can hardly stand it. I’m soaked to the bone before I ever leave the apartment. I wish I had never come to the capital. I wish I could have stayed back home. I was too smart to stay home, though. Part of me wishes I had never tried to win. It never stops raining here.

Polly’s stopped asking me what’s wrong. I’ve stopped lying. I can’t say what’s wrong, because it sounds too alien. We have a saying for it, where I’m from. They don’t have it here. I just sound like white noise, to them. I’ve always sounded like white noise.

They all speak strange here, anyways. There’s no point in interacting with anyone, besides Polly and Sofie Schotek. I can hardly understand the newspapers. It’s all muddled half-formed words that I understand and drift. I don’t want to speak like them. They want me to and it makes me bitter. I won’t do it.

Sofie Schotek gave me an invitation, yesterday. She wants me to have dinner with her and her husband. It’s an intelligentsia dinner, with all of the trimmings, drunk philosophy PhD candidates included. They want me to come, so very desperately, she had said in her flat voice, cigarette smoke giving her a nasal quality. I would be the life of the party. They’ve all read my stories, of course, the pieces published by the capital Free Press and re-published in the university literature journal. Reiker just loves, loves, loves my take on cultural disintegration of the mountain hamlets. It’s his favorite short story from me.

It was an essay.

Polly wants to me to go. I wasn’t going to tell her about it, but she has her way of creeping around the corners of the sitting room, always listening in on conversations. I once hid a telegram in my sock drawer and she read it. She’s the worst kind of spy, because she doesn’t even profit from any of the boring minutia I slough through. There’s nothing devious about her. She’s simply curious.

She thinks going would be good for me. I intend to go mostly for Sofie. It would do her reputation wonders. I am, after all, a most disagreeable hermit. The local zoo attraction, if only for a night. They will all hear my accent and fall out of love with me. Polly offers to come with me, but my pride is vicious. I tell her as much. I may need a translator, but I don’t need a press representative.

It begins at seven tomorrow night, and I intend to arrive a cool half-hour into it.

Sofie Schotek wasn’t wrong about the trimmings. I’ve been trying to extradite myself from the chummy arms of Rothsmann for the last seven minutes, ducking and weaving through his blubbering sentiments with my own tepid volleys. He’s a foreigner and assumes I am as well. He won’t stop telling me all the sights in this country that I simply must see. Why don’t I take a train around the countryside, sometime? This may be the artistic capital of the continent, but one may want to draw some amount of inspiration from the former-peasants along the borders. One can’t supply his inspiration solely with the dullness of academia.

I heartily agree, searching the room for Schotek or anyone else who could save me. I manage to lock eyes with her husband, Franzi, who’s having a mild conversation with Kefkin, a poet from the low country. He takes mercy on me, excusing himself from her, and making his way across toward me.

Mr. Hoffenthal, it’s been a while. He grins easily, his teeth very straight, staring at Rothsmann. Franzi is a man’s man, and I apologize for the cliché, but I honestly have never given Franzi much thought beyond clichés. He’s a genial creature, strong and pleasant, commanding without having to intimidate. He steers me away from Rothsmann, mentioning that dinner should be ready in ten minutes or so.

I ask him if that means I could politely sit down now. He believes it is well within the boundaries of manners. I tell him that’s very good. He’s about a head taller than me, and dressed well. I am wearing Polly’s brother’s wedding suit jacket and a pair of trousers. I fiddle with the moth-bitten cuffs. I’m tired of socialite festivities. I am not at home in the interpreted world.

This experience is thoroughly mortifying. Everyone here has indeed read me. They have read my essays, they have read my short stories, they have read my memoir. ‘When I write of my life, I prefer to remember it artistically rather than historically. That’s how I prefer to remember most things, because I’m dreadful at coping. I’m dreadful at the ugly, frayed bits.’ I wrote that in a memoir. They have read that. I feel as though they are all Ham, and they gawk at my nakedness, though not one has indicated as much. I feel as though my nerves are exposed.

I am seated somewhere in the middle of the table, closer to the Schoteks than farther. They both sit at the head of the table, Franzi at the top, Sofie to his right. I too am on the right side. I am not familiar with the names of the foods they serve. They are rich. My tongue recoils from them in shock. I have a survivor’s stomach. I will throw up, later tonight. It is a shame, because I know this is an expensive ordeal.

Reiker sits on my right. I know Sofie Schotek planned this. He’s quite the fan, apparently, but he has been thoroughly civil to me so far. I do not know how one can be a fan of decay, but I suppose it is much like how one is a fan of terror. There are many fans of terror at this table.

Of course he does make his move, but it is as socially tasteful as it can be, and I applaud him for that effort. I was much less level when I encountered Zwinger in the university halls in low country. Reiker knows not to make an ass out of himself.

I really enjoyed your Treatise on the Construction of Rights, he tells me.

I thank him.

Especially the part on nationalism, he adds. ‘...a malnourished and misbehaved child, an incorrigible beast of the tempestuous tides of self-delusion.’ You write the height of satire, Mr. Hoffenthal.

I thank him again. That was the essay.

Your wordplay is always unique. It creates incredible images.

I thank him again.

Reiker tells me that he finds it beautiful.

And I know that beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror. But I thank him, nonetheless, because he is a fan of terror.

He cocks his head at that. A fine line, he thinks of my thoughts. I am nothing truly substantial to him. And my accent. I will never live like beautiful people. Terrible people. Angels, in their likeness, ephemeral, knowing not if they move amongst the living or the dead, the past or the present, such is their nostalgia. It is a nostalgia for a fictional world. I wrote about all of this, once. I articulated it all, once.

The infancy of terror surrounds me in this world. I see Minister Piper in all their faces--I am surrounded by terrorists. I am a man among angels. They are hungry for blood. I don’t blame them. They know no other way. I miss home, though. Things are simple, at home. We are all men, there. There is terror in my breast, their world weaseling into mine. I cannot write anymore.

Reiker thinks my thoughts on the nation are satire. It is just as well. I don’t think about the nation. I only write about the inadequacies I’ve witnessed. Life is very inadequate and I know this, for it has left me wanting. My accent itches down my neck, like loose sweat. I wish I had been born in another epoch. There’s an ancient sorrow to my people that I cannot articulate, because it is exclusive and insurmountable. It simply colors everything. This room is too bright.

He inquires after my homeland. He calls it that, calls it a homeland, as though we are from entirely different countries. Perhaps we are. Perhaps we are two different species of animal, seated side by side at this long stretch of table.

I clear my throat, straighten my back, my tongue languid in my mouth, like Polly taught me. This is in both parts conscious and subconscious. I draw all my pieces together to play a part, to prevent humiliation. I tell him it’s been a definite influence on my work.

And how is the city treating me? As well as I can expect, Reiker. I am, after all, a bumbling country boy. The coffee is weaker here, for one, and it never stops raining. Oh, do laugh, but I’m not joking. It’s an impartial observation. It’s truth. At this point I’m retroactively considering it a priori knowledge. We’re all born knowing certain things, Reiker, and the weakness of this dead town’s coffee is one of them. I knew it before it touched my shuddering lips, I knew how weak it would be. Everything feels diluted here, really, like I’m wearing thick gloves, like you’re all speaking underwater, little sirens darting through the reeds. You want to seduce me under, I suppose. My urge is dead, you fools.

Reiker takes everything with such good humor. He thinks of me fondly, I see it in the lines of his cheeks. I am a satirist. I wish I were a satirist. I would be much happier as a satirist. I clack my utensil against the plate absently. I don’t know the name for it. It is the utensil. Another failing that crawls under my skin. I’m fit to bursting with imperfection and offense.

Reiker notes that the way I portray love almost seems puritanical. How does this label seem to me? Is it fair? I confess to him that I don’t know very much about puritans. He laughs at that, too. He asks me what my favorite work I’ve written is. It’s hardly a poignant question, barely indicative of anything of value. I tell him I’d have to think about it, instead of saying the truth. The truth is often insulting, because it is the truth.

Reiker supposes that I did a lot of mountain climbing in the homeland. No one mountain climbs except the tourists. We hate the mountains, because they are cold and do not keep the wind away. He asks after the true story of my Uwe. I tell him I made Uwe up. But that was a memoir, was it not? Yes. But it was an artistic memoir, Mr. Reiker. It was truer than reality. He is taken aback, he blinks at things he cannot understand. I speak his language, but I may as well not be doing so. I may as well not be speaking at all. There are no words to describe any of this. I revile myself for ever trying to describe anything.

Reiker twists the knot growing in my chest without realizing he is doing anything. I can’t explain what hurts me, it is all simply the minor defeats adding upon themselves, and here am I, out of any element I have ever conceived, and I feel like a fool. He asks me about my novel. He hears I will write a novel. I tell him if I do, it will be a long time coming. He asks me what it will be about. I tell him it will be about what all novels are about. He asks me why I write. What is my inspiration, my drive? What propels me to my nuanced hysteria? I think of reading tattered textbooks by whale oil into the morning hours when the sky turns a pale blue against the jagged peaks, I think of the goats spitting grass cud at me through the wood fence, I think of the snow in the eighth month, my shoes worn thin and the leather ungluing again, I think of my guileless Josiah’s unweighted grief in the face of familial destruction, I think of my proud deluded Sophus believing himself to be a martyr, I think of my Uwe speaking sweet words to me which were never said. I tell him I write to discover God.

I am taken aback by my own emotion, retreating my eyes toward my plate.

Let’s not talk about my home anymore. I suggest we turn the conversation. Reiker acquiesces with the easiness of a man who knows nothing of his opponent’s frailty. If he tipped me, I surely would have plunged. I feel moth-bitten and adrift. He is aware of my shut-in nature; everyone here is aware of my shut-in nature. Everyone here has heard of me, has read me. I feel sick. They are words not meant for them. I trust Polly’s translation, but I also do not trust my translated readers. I regret coming here. I regret writing. A satirist. My memoir. What a fine ignorance.

Reiker asks me if I think the international community is collapsing. I didn’t even know it had a foundation to fall in on. He tells me that it’d be a shame if it did, but we are all ready to weather the storm. It is dreadful, surely, but if our way of life is ever threatened, we must defend ourselves. I don’t ask whose way of life, because I know what he means. I ask him about death. He tells me that dolce et decorum est et cetera.

I ask him if he really believes that and he says it doesn’t matter. I decide Reiker is a smart man. I tip my glass to him and he smiles hollowly. We are all stuffed men, at this table. I share that. I’ve heard much of Reiker before. He wrote the revisionist critique of Schotek’s history of the Piper régime. It was published in the capital university press. She still hasn’t formulated her response. The fact that she’s bothering to formulate any response at all bodes well for Reiker. Schotek’s hired by the government, though, so he will lose. It’s a fine fight, however. I suppose I’ll keep up with it.

All historians are fans of decay. They flock to terror. They detach from it, they call it an idea. Reiker is an ideas man. That’s why he likes me. He likes ideas and he likes his idea of me. Don’t we all, though. I can’t really blame him. I signed up for this life when I resolved to get out of the mountains. I regret it in the way a banker regrets leaving the family farm. I left myself behind and I’m still picking up the pieces. It never stops raining here.

Reiker won’t stop talking about war, and if he keeps it up, I will surely go hysterical with revolt. I am terribly sensitive to such matters. I think of my father and decide to no longer think of my father. Reiker knows what he’s talking about, I know he knows, he understands what he is proposing, what he is projecting, but I cannot bear the thought of borders tearing again. Let us leave stitches where they lie. The damage is done again and again. I do not care for politicking. Say what you will, but most of the world doesn’t think about high ideals--they only die for them. I cannot say this to Reiker, however, whose brother is now in the mounted fusiliers.

We speak of nothing substantial. I didn’t expect us to. Substantial things are not discussed among our kind, and I am most certainly one of their kind, now, in a sense. I am both with them and without them. I am a halfbreed. A token. Reiker looks at me with earnest affection for his idea of me. I let him. It is the polite thing to do.

I suggest some Zwinger pieces to him and sit through idle conversation until my stomach forces me to leave the Schotek residence. Sofie shakes my hand with her curt energy, offering to hail a cab for me, which I reject with tempered politeness. Franzi’s soft eyes watch me. I wonder if he knows about me, and if he did, if he would feel sorry for me. I wonder if any of them would feel sorry for me. Part of me wants them to, if only so that I can spit on their pity. But Franzi just watches me with those soft eyes, lips quirked pleasantly, and I cannot raise hackles at this alpha male. I feel like a child, again, my stomach sick with foreign food and my mind empty with uncertainty. I shake his hand out of courtesy, shake Sofie’s once more, and I descend the steps to the street.

I forgot to bring an umbrella and it is raining again.

Polly doesn’t ask me about it when I return, heavy with rain and regret. I slide out of my skin and huddle against the hearth. She lets me. She doesn’t ask me. I wonder if I wish she would. I decide it doesn’t matter. I have a response for everything. It doesn’t matter. I slide my eyes shut and I sleep on the floor. Polly must step around me to get her knitting. She does and I sleep into the morning.

Polly tells me I could do dock work, when I awake. My face is crushed against the carpet, my skin rubbed raw. My fist has made an imprint on my cheek. She’s still wearing her sleeping shift, and I stare at her veined ankles, dwarfed by her slippers, peeking out from the pallid silk. There’s a vulnerability to Polly, I think, and I can’t protect her. I can’t protect anyone, I’ve never been able to do it once. I dream of it, though, I dream of shielding Polly from this world. She’s too sweet to me. It’s all part of her vulnerability. I express my vulnerability through brittle bitterness, she through smothering sympathy. We will both suffocate. I think about lighting a candle for both of us in the cathedral. That is an admittance I am not yet prepared to make, however. I am still too aware of my messianic potential.

I could do dock work, she tells me again. We both know I’m far too cerebral for that. I was taken here to write books, but it’s too miserable to write and I don’t care to anyways. I never cared for writing. I just did it. Free Press won’t stop contacting me about it. I’ve stopped opening their letters and telegrams. I don’t want to write. Schotek can write a million novels and I have only these essays and story anthologies. I am content with those. I said what I said. I have nothing more to say. I have nothing.

Polly thinks I’m depressed, that I’ve lost my musical voice, that I’ve lost my prose and my purpose. I wish that were the case. I’m bursting with words, but they’re all waterlogged and ill-fitting. Silence fits experience better. I understand silence. I’m learning to appreciate it, like a bitter pill. Depression is for those who don’t suffer from experience. I certainly suffer from experience. All of my sorrow can disappear tomorrow, if only the world would right its crimes against me.

I tell her I’m held back.

Held back? Held back, Waldi? Held back from what? she’s close to screaming, her arms tense, little pale twigs rattling in the wind. She is incensed by my acted apathy, it has worn her down to the nerve.

Divine perfection.

Polly seems lost, at that. She isn’t sure what I mean. I can’t say. It’s white noise. I think of Reiker’s idealism. My jaw wobbles.

Who would hear me, if I cried out? And if someone took notice, if anyone cared enough for me, would he not absorb me into his self? That is all that taking one under one’s wing is, after all. Cannibalism. I am the weaker creation. I am no man. I am a specter. It is only fitting. This place is going to eat me and I have no choice but to let it.

I tell her I’m going to fetch the paper. She watches me change and leave. I don’t stop her and she doesn’t stop me. It’s an exchange, like everything else.

Old man Effler hands the Sunday paper over to me for two pieces. He talks to me about the weather and celebrities. I give him answers. Then I leave. The air sticks to my skin, black and sallow. I think of my father and I want to weep for all of creation. I hate this city. I never should have written anything. I fist the newspaper, gritting my teeth. I can’t even read the headlines, anyways. I am mute. I am foreign. I am less. The rest is silence.

I forgot to bring an umbrella. It’s starting to rain in the way of the capital, with little warning, thick and rigid almost immediately. I duck my head, raising my arms to cover me, and walk with brisk purpose back to Polly’s apartment building.

I forgot to bring an umbrella and I think that it has never rained so much in my memory. This is an invention of this wretched place. It’s mocking me, saliva flinging at my face as it spits on my self-pity. I suppose I deserve that, for hypocrisy. I cannot write anymore, I think, an errant, constant thought that crops up. I cannot write anymore. I wonder if I have had one epiphany too many. I cannot write anymore.

I breathe again when I make it to the landing, indoors. The air is stiff with carpet and wallpaper. I remove the newspaper from its seat upon my head, my hair lightly damp, and find it unreadable. The paper sags between my hands, tearing where the pads of my fingers dig in, the letters sliding off of the cheap pulp, dripping together, swirling into anonymity. I can’t read it.

I drag my finger through the ink and it comes back black.

 


End file.
